First Time, Or Second, Or Third
by KatySummers
Summary: John and Sherlock's first anniversary doesn't go exactly as planned.


John awoke slowly, very warm, and very comfortable. His head pillowed by his boyfriend's firm chest. He burrowed into the warmth, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. He shuffled to accommodate John a bit, but otherwise, didn't wake. John loved watching Sherlock sleep. His face relaxed, and at peace with the silence that sleeping provided his mind.

John stayed, watching Sherlock, and nuzzling his side for a moment before begrudgingly extracting himself from the warm duvet and donning his dressing gown over his pants, but not bothering to tie it. He padded his way to the kitchen, going through the lulling motions of making their morning tea. He really hoped Sherlock remembered. Well, of course, thought John, Sherlock was not someone to forget something. He just really hoped Sherlock would acknowledge their first anniversary. John couldn't believe it was only a year ago, he could recall it like it was just last week though.

For 812 days John lived alone, withdrawn, and depressed in 221B after Sherlock's fall. He didn't have the heart to move anything of Sherlock's without it being necessary; you never would have guessed that only one man lived there just by looking. It was a rather unpleasant day for John, not that any of his days without Sherlock were pleasant, but this was especially horrid. The weather was dreary, common for a London in November, but it took nearly twenty minutes for him to hail a cab to the surgery. Once there, he slipped and fell on the hard pavement after his cane went out from under his slippery hands. He was a full thirty minutes late, grumpy and soaking wet, his day only got worse. From spilling coffee to mixing up files, nothing seemed to go right for John.

By the time he got home, all he wanted to do was curl up in Sherlock's bed and cry, the reality of Sherlock being gone forever hit him hard every time he walked through the door of the flat. He slept, and cried, in Sherlock's room every night, becoming more and more depressed as the smell of the detective faded. As his hiccupped sobs wore down, and he was on his way to another sleepless night, he heard the door to the flat being opened, he knew it wasn't a friend, he didn't have any anymore, and it wasn't Mrs Hudson because she stopped visiting once John told her 'piss off.' He was probably being robbed, and he might even be killed, but John just couldn't get himself to care. It's not that he wanted to die, because he would never have the nerve to actually kill himself, but he just didn't want to live anymore.

He kept in his bed, and listened. Maybe they wouldn't check the bedroom, for fear of being caught, he thought, as he heard slow footsteps outside his door. But that idea was long gone when the door creaked open. Maybe they would believe he slept through the robbery. His heart stuttered when the bed dipped, and a hand came to rest on his cheek, stroking under his eye. Oh great, a pervert, he thought.

"Oh, John," a low, sympathetic voice whispered, and John's eyes flew open, and he shot up in bed, head spinning. No, no, no, no, he thought, this couldn't be . . . but there he was, face to face with Sherlock Holmes, who was looking sheepishly into his lap, where his hands were now clasped together.

"In the morning, I was . . . but, I couldn't wait. . ." Sherlock mumbled, waiting for John to start yelling and throwing punches for all he put him through. John's heart was thudding in his chest, his voice taken by a lump that formed in his throat once he saw the tears rolling down Sherlock's cheeks. 'This must be a dream', he thought, but that was impossible, he never had dreams anymore, there were only nightmares.

"I am so sorry. . ." Sherlock whispered, "I -" But John cut him off by lunging at him, clutching his threadbare coat like it was his lifeline. Crushing Sherlock to himself, John sobbed into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock held John, whispering reassurances into his ear and stroking his back. Once the tears stopped, John kept Sherlock pressed to him his lips resting on Sherlock's neck, still half-naked, and still half-tangled in sheets. He pulled back, really looking at Sherlock. He was thin, thinner than normal, his hair a bit shabbier and deep purple circles were under his eyes and his clothes, rumpled and dirty. So beautiful, thought John to himself. John already knew how awful he looked. Tired, usually unshaven, with red-rimmed eyes from perpetual crying, but Sherlock thought he was the most beautiful person on Earth. Sherlock cradled John's face in his hands, and John was still clutching at his shoulders.

"You. . ." John trailed off, at a loss for words.

"I did it to protect you," the fierce sincerity in Sherlock's gaze was heart wrenching, at that was it for John. He pressed his lips softly against Sherlock's, it was almost timid. Sherlock stiffened and when he didn't respond, John moved to pull back, rejection twisting his heart. Then Sherlock pulled his face toward him again, and moulded his chapped lips against John's, kissing him as softly. Pulling back again, surprised, John was smiling from ear to ear. He pressed their mouths together again, John kept kissing him as he sunk his fingers into the dark curls, and Sherlock wrapped his lanky arms around John's back, bringing their chests together. They kissed for what seemed like forever, slow and sweet, filled with unspoken love and unrequited feelings. It was soft and reassuring and Sherlock was a very bad kisser, but it was perfect to John. When Sherlock pulled back John gasped and was suddenly frightful.

Sherlock hushed him, "John, John, it's alright," he said looking John straight in the eye, "I'm not leaving, I promise." John just nodded jerkily clutching Sherlock's hand as he shed the old clothing, only releasing it when necessary and Sherlock climbed into bed, gathering John into his arms. John's face pressed against his bare chest, arms wound tightly around his middle and legs tangling with his own, Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing for the first time in forever. And together they had their first peaceful night's sleep in 812 days.

Sherlock pulled John out of his musing by looping his long arms around John's middle and pressing his lips to the back of John's neck.

"Good morning, handsome," came a low rumbling in his ear. Even after a year, Sherlock's voice could still make him weak in the knees. John turned in the embrace for a kiss. He hummed against Sherlock's lips, smiling.

"Cuppa?" he asked when they parted.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said smirking, and squeezing John's bum. Since Sherlock's return, John gave him his old bedroom for his experiments, Sherlock insisting that he wasn't going to sleep alone anymore, and the kitchen had been blissfully tidy since. They sat at the table with the paper for a moment, in amiable silence until John spoke up.

"Do you remember what today is?" asked John, not looking up from the paper, fearing that he couldn't take it if Sherlock didn't remember.

"Of course," Sherlock said fiercely, setting the paper down and looking at John. John looked up, an eyebrow raised in question. "Our anniversary. My return, the first time we kissed, the first time I realized. . ." Sherlock trailed off, averting his gaze by picking up the paper again.

"Realized. . ." John prompted, hopes high. During their year-long relationship Sherlock was yet to utter those three words, and John didn't want to admit his level of loyalty and adoration he had for the man first, worried that revealing his true feelings would make Sherlock realize he could do so much better than a wounded soldier.

Sherlock fumbled. "Realized . . . just how beautiful you are when you smile," he replied, trying to keep the lie from affecting him.

"Oh," John said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice, though Sherlock would know either way, "I always knew you were beautiful." John replied honestly loving that still, after all this time and millions of sincere compliments, he could still make Sherlock blush. Sherlock felt bad about lying, but he was certain if John knew what he would do for him, how much he needed him, he would realise he could do way better than a clingy sociopath.

John realized that he couldn't yet give Sherlock the gift he bought a few days ago, buried in the bottom of an old shoe box, but he did know what he could give Sherlock. John thought - no, knew - their relationship was practically perfect, but they were yet to be intimate. Heated snogging and heavy petting was the closest they had gotten. John had even come in his trousers, like a bloody teenager, a few times. But from what he gathered, Sherlock was a virgin, never even kissed anyone before John, which made his heart sing, though it took a while to teach him, not that he was complaining. And, Sherlock had never even had an orgasm, said he 'didn't see the point.'

John cleared his throat a bit and stood. "Today could also be another anniversary, if you wish." He said looking down at Sherlock, still sitting at the table.

"Wha-?" But Sherlock stopped, and gasped when John straddled him in his chair, grinding his arse against Sherlock's lap, eliciting a whimper from the both of them. He took this opportunity to shove his tongue down the detective's throat, kissing him messily. Sherlock groaned and grabbed John's arse. After some passionate kissing, and rutting their aching cocks together, Sherlock pulled back, a whimper of loss leaving John's lips.

"John, I don't think-" Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

"Please, Sherlock. Let me give you pleasure, please, I want to give you everything, I need to. . ." John pleaded breathlessly.

"I-" He started again, but John cut him off a second time.

"We'll go as slow as you need. Tell me to stop and I will, I'll do whatever you want Sherlock. Please." He emphasized his request by grinding down on Sherlock's aching dick again.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he moaned, loud and needy. He jerked his head in permission, not trusting his voice to give his assent. John leered and slowly dropped to his knees in between Sherlock's spread legs. Sherlock looked down and thought he was going to cum at just the sight of John. John rubbed his face against Sherlock's clothed erection, inhaling deeply the musky scent. He mouthed and palmed Sherlock through his silk pants, ignoring Sherlock's sobs of pleasure. He finally relented and hooked his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pants and tugged -

The door to 221B banged open and Mrs Hudson was exclaiming loudly, "Oh, boys these were just delivered to the. . . Oh my!" She exclaimed, blushing and looking away ashamed at the sight of John on his knees for Sherlock's rapidly deflating cock.

John stuttered face red, standing and fixing his dressing gown to hide his still half-hard dick. Sherlock huffed in annoyance, eyes closed. "What is it Mrs Hudson? You know, you really need to learn to knock."

"Boys! Locks!" She admonished, chancing a look at the pair again. "I just came to give you this beautiful bouquet that came just a moment ago." She said holding up a huge bundle of dusty pink calla lilies, John's favourite. He gasped, Sherlock stood, taking the flowers from Mrs Hudson and shooing her out of the flat.

"Are those . . .?" John asked, pointing at the flowers in Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, John I meant for you to see them when you woke, but it seems the florist was late." Sherlock said, handing the flowers to a now broadly smiling John. John inhaled the wonderful aroma in awe. Sherlock was never sentimental.

"They're not even in season yet!" John said perplexed at the offending flower.

"I. . . I may or may not have had Mycroft fly them in, express, from New Zealand." Sherlock said shrugging nonchalantly.

"You," he said utterly amazed, "asked Mycroft for a favour? And a sentimental favour?" John was nearly dizzy with glee, stomach doing somersaults.

"It seems I am . . . taken by you." He said following John into the kitchen, where he promptly put the flowers in a vase of water. John turned once finished.

"You. Sherlock Holmes," said John backing him into the living room. "Are an amazing man." John then pushed down on the couch. "Now," he said softly, cradling Sherlock's cheek, "Turn over." He gave him a questioning glare, but obeyed nonetheless, kneeling over the edge.

John helped Sherlock rid of his dressing gown and ran his hands slowly over his back, raising goose pimples. It had taken a while, but after Sherlock's return John helped him gain the weight back again so he looked less malnourished. Now he was even eating regularly. He started at the knob of Sherlock's neck and slowly kissed down Sherlock's spine, mouthing on each vertebra, nipping here and there. As he neared Sherlock's tailbone he felt Sherlock tense. John pulled up his head and shushed Sherlock, petting his flank.

"Shh, it's fine. I'll only do what you want. Relax. Only what you're comfortable with." He murmured peppering his back with soft kisses and rubbing him until he was lax. He laved at the dimples before the swell of Sherlock's arse. Rubbing the pert globes of Sherlock's bum he slowly started to pull down his pants, kissing the exposed skin as he went. Sherlock's pants were almost all the way off his hips when a shrill ringing came from the opposite end of the couch.

Sherlock groaned and threw his head back. John sat back on his haunches, allowing Sherlock to grab the offending mobile.

"What?" He nearly growled, hoping that he could finally give John what he wanted.

"Oh, good. You're up," said Mycroft's smug voice from the other end of the line.

"Unfortunately, not anymore." Sherlock grumbled sounding severely put out.

Mycroft had the nerve to let out a barking laugh at that. "How did John like the lilies?" he asked, sounding genuinely interested, but Sherlock saw through the act.

"Loved them. And he was about to eat my arse as payment," he snarled angrily, making John's face heat up. Saying it out loud made it sound so much dirtier. "So, if you would please, piss off, my arse would appreciate it." He nearly yelled, throwing the phone, and resting his head on his folded arms.

"Maybe . . . we should try the bedroom?" John suggested, and before the question was even finished Sherlock was tugging John toward their bedroom. He stepped in, and shut the door behind him, immediately pushing John up against it, and kissing him greedily. John grabbed Sherlock and guided him toward the four-poster. Once the back of Sherlock's knees hit the edge, John pushed him back and climbed on top, knees on either side of Sherlock's hips. John braced both his hands next to Sherlock's head, and bent down for a bruising kiss. He ground his arse down on Sherlock's rapidly rising cock, making both the men groan.

John hurriedly climbed off Sherlock, and divested himself of his pants before reaching for Sherlock's. Just as they were nearly off, a loud banging came from the front door. Both men growled in frustration, but Sherlock was silently relieved, John seemed a little too angry for his liking.

"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away," John whispered, silently praying.

"John! Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice boomed through the flat. "I know you're in there!" He yelled before opening the front door. "Sherlock, got an interesting one for you!" His voice came a bit closer. "Quadruple murder, and one still missing! All the victim's hands were -," but John cut him off by wrenching the bedroom door open, and practically roared.

"Let. Me. Fuck. My. Boyfriend." he snarled at a dumbfounded Greg.

"Whoa, finally?" He asked.

"OUT!" And Greg quickly strode out of the flat looking embarrassed. John closed the bedroom door, and leaned against it, sinking down to the floor, head in his hands. He was nearly about to cry in frustration when he remember the frightened gasp from Sherlock when he yelled at Lestrade. He looked up, and sure enough, Sherlock was a tad frightened from John's outburst.

"Sherlock," he nearly whispered. "I'm so sorry. I. . ." He sat on the bed, near Sherlock's feet, head hanging. Sherlock scooted over and sat next to John, still a bit shaken. John was an idiot. He should have known. Father Holmes wasn't the kindest of men, and that left an impression on Sherlock. He got skittish if he was really yelled at and never thought he deserved the love he was given.

"It's fine John," Sherlock said soothingly, John felt ashamed, he should comfort Sherlock, "We can try again . . . later. If you want. Go out for a walk, go to the cinema, get some dinner. A real date."

John sighed and looked up, "I am so sorry Sherlock, I shouldn't have yelled . . . and I was a bit too rough." He leaned into Sherlock's embrace.

"You were just frustrated. You mean well," John turned and gathered Sherlock into his arms. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. Sorry, sorry," he kept mumbling in Sherlock's hair, a few or more tears falling from his eyes. He sniffed a bit and took a deep breath.

"Let's get ready. I'll get Mycroft to make us a reservation somewhere nice. Okay?" He said looking into Sherlock's gaze.

"Of course," he agreed.

Once they were both showered, and dressed, taking a little longer to share some kisses, they headed out for a nice walk around the park. Stopping to sit and admire the day, a quite nice one for November, and just to talk a bit. They went to see an independent French film at the foreign film plaza, sitting close so Sherlock could whisper the English into John's ear since there were no subtitles. Halfway through though, John lost focus and instead listened to the words of love from another spilling from Sherlock's mouth, John wishing they were for him. A few kisses and nips to John's ear form Sherlock lead them to snogging, and finally getting thrown out by a bouncer after their fifth warning. They laughed together as the bouncer escorted them out.

Luckily, getting kicked out gave them just enough time to make it to their dinner reservation at an upscale Italian restaurant just fancy enough to make John squirm, but the food was too good to resist.

Talking over their entrée, John suggested they exchange their gifts, at least John wanted to give his, but Sherlock informed him that he indeed bought a gift as well. John pulled out a receipt to the new computer Sherlock had been drooling over for weeks, telling him it was at home in the kitchen. Sherlock's was another sentimental gift, which surprised John. A new camera phone directly linked to Sherlock's so they could both see where the other was and instant messaging. Sherlock assured John that his tracking device wasn't yet active, because Sherlock wanted to make sure John was okay with it. The consideration making his eyes water a bit. Throughout the night John felt in his pocket for the second gift he got Sherlock, but he didn't have the nerve to present it.

Sexual tension fluttered around them on the way home to the point where Sherlock paid the man double to pick up the pace. They fumbled to get inside, and Sherlock stopped every few steps to suck a mark on John's neck, growling 'mine' a few times. Once inside, Sherlock hastily led them to the bedroom, quickly locking the doors and turning off both phones.

John took Sherlock's hand and led him through to the bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed tenderly. John leaned down on one knee in front of Sherlock, to untie his shoes, and did the same to Sherlock. Once both divested of socks and shoes, Sherlock went to pull John up, but he stopped him. John looked at Sherlock, his everything, all he ever wanted, and he steeled himself, ready for rejection and anger.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said seriously, "I love you," he said firmly, trying to suppress his wince at the look of shock and surprise on Sherlock's face.

So stupid, he thought. Sherlock couldn't love John. John looked away after a moment of silence, eyes stinging, when Sherlock gently took hold of his jaw. He held John's face between both of his hands, and looked at him seriously.

"If that's the case, then John Watson," he said unwavering, "I love you." The truth of the words surprised Sherlock, and it baffled him how long it took to realize it.

John's huge grin threatened to split his face in two. He leapt up and pressed their lips together lovingly, trying to pour all of his emotion into this once kiss, Sherlock kissing back just as tenderly. It was slow and loving, but they both needed more. John explored Sherlock's mouth for the millionth time, with Sherlock sucking on his tongue greedily, the snogging soon turned desperate and needy.

John pushed Sherlock on the bed, and pulled his jumper over his head before latching himself on Sherlock's neck. He sucked a mark right underneath Sherlock's ear, causing him to curse and moan loudly. He pulled John onto him fully, naked chests pressing together. John slid down to Sherlock's pink nipples; John loved how sensitive they were. He licked a broad stripe over one, causing Sherlock to gasp and wind his fingers into John's hair, before fixing his mouth over one, and sucking hard. Sherlock writhed beneath him.

"John, John, oh god. John, please!" Sherlock sobbed, rutting against John's leg through his trousers. John relented and pulled away with one last nip. He smiled predatorily up at Sherlock. He then stood and shed his trousers and pants. Sherlock whimpered at the sight of John's cock; long and thick with precome leaking from the red tip.

He gently re-positioned Sherlock in the middle of the large bed with his head against the pillows. He worked the fly and zipper open on his trousers, being careful not to brush up against his straining erection too much. Once opened, he pulled Sherlock's trousers and pants down in one swift motion, tossing them off the bed.

"God, Sherlock, you are so beautiful." John stared down at Sherlock, his cock long and slender just like the rest of him, John nearly came at the lack of pubic hair.

He whimpered and blushed under John's gaze. "I – I shaved for you," he whispered, making John squeeze the base of his cock to keep from coming.

John peppered a few more sweet kisses down Sherlock as he sunk down between Sherlock's legs. He forewent his cock to kiss, and then lick and suck at Sherlock's heavy bollocks. He moaned, long and loud, voice going straight to John's cock. Sherlock fisted his hands in the sheets and was twitching with the effort of not thrusting into John's face.

John stopped, with a noise of protest of Sherlock and reached into the nightstand for the lube. Sherlock froze at the sight of it.

"Shh, Sherlock, it's okay. We're only doing what you want, alright? Tell me to stop if it's too far, okay?" John murmured reassuringly as he coated two of his fingers. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. John slowly circled Sherlock's clenched entrance as he sucked one of Sherlock's testicles into his mouth until he relaxed enough to have John insert one finger.

Sherlock squirmed a bit when John began to move it in and out a few times. It didn't hurt; it just felt a bit strange. Once used to the intrusion, John carefully added more lube, and added a second finger at he carefully licked at Sherlock's shaft as a distraction. John scissored his two fingers carefully before pushing in and crooking them at the knuckle.

Sherlock gasped and bucked, and nearly screamed underneath him at the attention his prostate was receiving. John smiled and rubbed his fingers gently against the bundle of nerves before sneaking in a third finger.

"Guh, oh god. John – John, please. Oh right there – feels so, ugh, good." Sherlock babbled and moaned underneath him, the pornographic sounds he was making were sincere, and so good for John. "Please," he begged, "John, I – guh, need you."

John thrust his fingers in a few more times. He really didn't want to have Sherlock be in pain his first time. John remembers how uncaring his first partner was. When Sherlock was unashamedly begging, he relented and pulled his fingers out. He decided to forego the condom since Sherlock was a virgin and he hadn't slept with anyone for nearly a decade.

He positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance, looking up and giving him enough time to change his mind, but he was so far gone. His hair was a wreck, a flush spread from his neck, down to his smooth chest, and the sheen of sweat made him look otherworldly.

"You're so beautiful, god Sherlock. I love you. Love you so much," John panted.

Sherlock looked at him through his lashes, eyes blown wide with lust, and wrapped his legs around John's waist, locking him into place.

John slowly pressed inside, slowly sinking into the blissful tight heat of Sherlock's arse. The force of trying not to just fuck wildly into Sherlock made him tremble. Once he bottomed out John waited for Sherlock to get used to him, and he kissed every part of the man that he could reach.

"Move," Sherlock demanded after a moment, grasping at John's forearms on either side of his head. John carefully pulled out, until only the tip remained in. Then, he pushed back in with the same deliberate slowness as before, Sherlock panted as John tried to aim his slow thrust toward his prostate. As soon as the tip of his cock grazed Sherlock's prostate, he shouted and tightened his legs around John's waist and grasped at the headboard, grinding his ass down and trying to push back against John as much as he could.

"AH, JOHN!" Sherlock shouted. "Harder, harder, faster, please."

"I don't want to hurt you," John grunted, ignoring the urge to just fuck Sherlock into the mattress. Sherlock groaned, and taking a deep breath, he grabbed John's shoulders, and flipped them over, so he was straddling John, careful not to let John slip out of him. Before John could react to their sudden change in position, Sherlock lifted himself up and slammed back down, arching his back and moaning loud enough for the entire street to hear. Sherlock started a brutal pace, grinding on John's dick, holding his hands and threading their fingers together.

John moaned, giving in and thrusting in time to Sherlock who continued to slam himself down on John. Sherlock arched his back and screamed when he found his prostate again. The wanton moaning was quickly driving John to the edge. Knowing that he couldn't last any longer, John, stilling gripping both Sherlock's hands, planted his feet on the bed and thrust, fast and hard, in to the tight heat above him, needing Sherlock to cum before he did. John gripped Sherlock's hands tighter when he tried to pull them away to stroke his cock, knowing that he was close, because he wanted Sherlock to have his first orgasm from only John.

John thrust, one, two, three more times before Sherlock screamed, "JOHN!" and clenched down on John's dick, spurting hot come in thick stripes over his chest, some of it hitting his face with the intensity of Sherlock's orgasm. He was still moaning and twitching and clenching down on John's cock that was pounding into him when John's orgasm was ripped out of him and he came, hard, into Sherlock. They stayed like that for a moment, Sherlock groaning and twitching softly, grinding on John, milking his come from him, before exhaustion set in and Sherlock collapsed on top of John, breathing heavily, and his cock slipping from his hole with a squelch.

"Now I understand crimes of passion," Sherlock whispered on top of John with a chuckle.

"So," John asked timidly, "was it good?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kissed the tip of John's nose. He looked into John's eyes and said with all sincerity he could muster, "You're not leaving this bed. Ever. You are never leaving." John laughed and kissed Sherlock sweetly before laying him down on the bed, and padding to the bathroom for a wet flannel. He washed them both off as best he could, choosing to leave the shower for morning.

John searched through the discarded clothing on the floor with a questioning glance from Sherlock, but he just smiled at him. Sherlock was waiting on the bed, eyes closed, when John found what he was looking for in pocket of his trousers. Grabbing the small gift box he walked to the side of the bed where Sherlock was waiting, and climbed up to kneel next to him. Sherlock smiled happily when he felt John next to him, but didn't open his eyes until John cleared his throat, and questioned, "Sherlock?" timidly.

He sat up and opened his eyes to see John holding a small velvet box tightly in his hands. He was about to speak, but John cut him off.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the most intelligent, most clever man in existence, and I know I'm not that handsome or as smart or as clever as you, and I know we've only been officially dating a year, but I cannot imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone but you, as a lover or as just a flat mate. I love you with all my heart and I always have. I know you despise sentiment but, would you Sherlock Holmes," John said proudly, heart beating erratically, "give me, John Hamish Watson, the honour of being your husband, for now and forever?"

Sherlock gasped as John opened the small box, revealing two silver rings, with intricate engravings wrapped around them. John eyed Sherlock expectantly, who was looking at the rings.

"John," said Sherlock, finally looking him in the eye, "I despise sentiment," and John was sure his heart crumbled, he felt his eyes prickle, but listened as Sherlock continued, "from anyone, but you," he said giving John a smile that mended his heart, piece by piece, and filled him with warmth. "Yes, John, I will marry you." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

John nearly fainted and was shaking when he slipped the ring on Sherlock's long finger, and tears of joy seeped from his eyes when Sherlock did the same to him.

They kissed long and slow and sweet before curling around each other under the duvet, eyes slipping closed.


End file.
